In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. . . One marked difference between the poor outcast, who, oppressed by poverty, and stung by shame, had sought temporary relief in the stupifying draught,—that worst "medicine of a mind diseased,"—and those of the same being, freed from her vices, and restored to comfort and contentment, if not to happiness, by a more prosperous course of events, was exhibited in the mouth. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. She leaned back in the corner of the cab with a little sigh of relief. Not up here, I think.
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